


A Case Study in Love

by FayeWildwood



Series: A Case Study in Emotions [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Burns, Chronic Pain, Coldflashwave, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lewis Snart's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mick in pain, Panic Attacks, Protective Mick Rory, Small descriptions of sex, case study in emotions series, tags update as i go, will add more characters if they come up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 00:50:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13822989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayeWildwood/pseuds/FayeWildwood
Summary: A peek into the emotions of two rogues and their favorite speedster, and how they handle them.Case Two: Love- All That He is- The Way He Protects- And He Lets Them





	1. All That He Is

**Author's Note:**

> So some small warnings that are in the tags: there is going to be mentions of sex, anxiety attacks, and chronic pain in this first chapter. They are pretty brief, mostly just mentioning how Barry helps or deals with it (other than the sex, that's a little more extensive.) But just a warning. Also, totally not a doctor, so idk if the whole burn scars go numb or flare up thing is real. I have chronic pain that flares up during changes in weather so i'm going with the same logic. Sorry if it doesn't work for burns too, I'm just going with it.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Barry Allen is a very tactile lover- always touching, cuddling, pecking and kissing. He loves with his entire being and it's suffocating and addicting and amazing and so incredibly pure that it hurts. 

Most of the time he doesn't even realize he does it because compassion comes so easily to him. One moment Mick will be standing at the stove cooking dinner and the next he'll have a Barry shaped octopus attached to his back, chin resting on his shoulder and lips whispering compliments against his neck. Len could be leaning over plans for the next heist that Barry pretends isn't there, listening to some old vinyl on record, and the next second Barry is whisking him away into some half assed version of a waltz that Len is pretty sure isn't correct at all. (After the third time, he promises Barry to one day show him a proper waltz, maybe even a foxtrot if he's good.)

He's a whirlwind of pure, unadulterated love that practically spills out of his pores because no matter how much he showers others with it, he has too much to contain in one body. And no one is safe from it.

Even when Len and Mick are off on some job- sometimes even in the middle of one- they'll feel the briefest of kisses across their lips, leaving tingles under their skin and the taste of ozone thick on their tongues. (Later they find notes stuffed in pockets that hadn't been there before. "Be home late for dinner." "Iris is having an ice cream and chocolate kind of day, beware." "Movie night at the labs." "Going to Star City, don't cause too much trouble.") Doesn't matter if the other rogues are right next to them, doesn't matter if they're in a fire fight with the families. Barry runs slow enough to not leave a trail and yet fast enough to not be seen. It's actually impressive really when Len thinks about it. Sometimes the speedster will even be kind enough to pluck the bullets from the air if they look like the rogues won't dodge them in time.

Even on the days when Len can't stand the touching- which are rare recently- or Mick's in too much pain for the contact, Barry shows his love in other tactile ways.

He sits close enough for Len to feel his heat when the panic becomes too much and the lights become too bright. He makes sure Len can _feel_  him there without actually touching, makes sure he knows that he's there when the rogue is ready. Sometimes, if Len let's him, he'll slide his foot against the thief's, or maybe a knee- but only minimal contact and only when Len shows he needs it.

Mick is different because his pain is more physical than Len's. While Len can be touched with permission, Mick can crave the touch as much as he wants and still not be able to handle it. Sometimes, when the weather is changing too rapidly or the air is too wet or too dry, the nerves from his burns flare to life as if they were on fire once more. On any normal day they were dead- even Barry had to press hard into the skin for the man to even feel the touch- but some days he couldn't even handle the fabric of a shirt brushing against the scars.

Barry would make up for it in other ways- turning the air up or down as needed, leaving the shower on longer than necessary to make the room a bit more humid.

But the speedster was weak when it came to the pained look on Mick's face and the kisses would come eventually. Like he couldn't hold them back anymore and they came in a tsunami, crashing through him until he had to hit the shore some time. He'd never touch Mick's arms or shoulders, but he'd give soft pecks to the back of his neck, just above where the scars stopped, or to the side of the man's temple. Len never commented on it, but he always saw the kid with something cold in his hands before those tidal waves of kisses came, and he suspected it was so that his lips were cool to the touch on Mick's fiery skin.

On days when they were all tired from whatever crazy events the city decided to throw at them, they'd plop on the couch like a messy pile of limbs, usually with the rogues on either side and Barry sprawled across them both. He had this incessant need to be touching them if he could, (something about wanting them both to feel wanted probably.) Or he'd lean against Mick and give Len some sort of massage with his magical fingers, turning the frozen thief into a puddle of melted water.

Even on the rare occasions that Team Flash needed the rogue's help, Barry couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself. Every time he passed by them, his fingers would brush their's or his arm. If Len was sitting at a computer or leaning over some sort of plan, Barry would be right there beside him, close enough to feel his chest on his arm, his breath on his cheek, but not too close to arise suspicion from the team. With Mick it was more tactile, but less obviously affectionate. Barry would walk over to whatever corner the pyro was standing in and talk to him for a while, occasionally resting a hand on Mick's shoulder or elbowing him in the side to pull a gentle smile out of him.

And the sex... _goddamn_  the sex.

Sex with Barry was like having sex with a god. He consumed you, surrounded you, drew you into his bones until you could feel him shaking with the need to _touch_. It was always like that with him. Not a single patch of skin went unnoticed, not a single scar or tattoo went unkissed when Barry was in charge. His fingers skimmed over chests, tracing burns and ghosting over bones. And he was never still, always moving, always multitasking. Hands could be kneading at thighs while lips left fires against throats. Hips pressed against hips as teeth nipped at collarbones. He drinks the worship straight from Len's lips, claws the divinity from Mick's chest, rips gospels from their throats like they were meant for him.

He kisses them like he never wants to stop, pulls every breath from their lungs like it's his own personal supply of oxygen. They are a dangerous mix, an angel filled with passion for two demons, and yet he calls them holy like it's their names. His hands map communions across their skin, and his tongue wraps around fingers like silken robes. He falls to his knees as easily as Lucifer fell from heaven, hands gripping thighs, mouth opening like the ground that swallowed Persephone and _oh_  it's so hard not to lose yourself in him. So hard not to let his heels dig into your back until you're completely devoured.

Even in the aftermath, once their curled up under covers and the lights are out and their breathing is finally starting to return to them, even then he's soaking them in. His fingers trace silly designs and words into their skin, tattooing their souls with good intentions. His head rests on shoulders and his arms wrap around waists, desperately trying to pull them both into him because he can't sleep without them touching him, can't _breathe_  without the contact.

Because when Barry Allen loves you, he loves you with all that he is, and all he'll ever be.


	2. The Way He Protects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Case Study in how Mick shows his love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad everyone is loving these little stories!   
> I'm mostly writing them because I'm trying to work on my description skills as I find them severely lacking in my novels, but I'm so glad people are actually enjoying them! I hope you guys continue to like them!  
> Warning: child abuse mentions in this chapter, uhh prostitution mentioning, and violence.  
> I've also taken some liberties from different Flash universes like where Lisa used to ice skate and Hartley is deaf or at least partially. so yeah :)

Mick loves with his body, all 200+ lbs of it. He's grown up big and idiotic, his fists being his best weapon and his head being too hard to crack. He cares too easily, protecting people he's never met because while his skin is made of marble, his heart is made of gold. The day he sees a sparrow on the street, too young to be selling herself out and too weak to brandish the bruises decorating her skin, he tracks down the john who did it and puts him in the hospital. It's well known around the local corners that Mick takes care of the girls, whether he's purchasing their services or not. It's not uncommon for the older ones, the ones who've been around long enough to be able to call Mick a friend, to call him up if there's trouble brewing, not uncommon for him to drop what he's doing and come blazing in like the fire he is. 

Barry likes to call him a hero, and even though the pyro scoffs at the idea, Len sees him smiling behind the speedster's back as if happy to make the kid proud of him. Len knew the feeling.

Len and Mick met in Iron Heights, long ago enough that Barry makes age jokes about still being a kid. Len was a loud mouthed little punk, too proud to stand down and too stupid to know when to shut his mouth. He picked a fight with the wrong people, not giving two shits if it got him killed because the men worked with his father and made one too many threats against Lisa. Mick didn't even hesitate before stepping between Len and the knife, barely flinched when it slid easily into his shoulder. Even with a blade sticking out of him, he fought beside Len until the warning shots went off and the guards pulled them all apart. He happily spent a week in solitary, chattering away at a nearly silent Len through the grates like they'd been friends for years. Len hadn't really known how to take it, didn't know if he owed this stranger his life or if he could even trust him with it. And yet he did.

Over the years Mick took plenty of bullets for him and the thief took plenty in return. They were a well oiled machine covered in dings and dents, but working perfectly in tandem with each other.

It's the little things too that reminds Barry and Len that Mick loves them, the little things people on the outside expect from their lovers but that seem so special to someone as broken and untrusting as people in their line of work tend to be. 

It's the way Mick slams his fists into the bread dough on anniversary night because he knows Barry likes homemade rolls. It's the way he pulls his punches when heists and heroes collide, knowing Barry will heal and yet not willing to take the risk. It's the way he wraps himself around speedster and thief alike after being woken by their screaming, chasing away the nightmares with bulging muscles and gentle caresses.

Even out in public it's obvious that Mick cares, though it's a little more subtle to the untrained eye. 

He stands like a massive shadow behind the two, an ever present threat to anyone who might dare to think they could take one of his partners on. Knuckles crack when the wrong look is sent their way, bones break when a hand strays too far into private territory. Barry scolds him the first few hands he broke after someone got too touchy with the kid- because god forbid the speedster not _politely_  ask someone to leave him alone- but after one too many grunted agreements that were never followed through with, he seemed to give up. Though really Mick was going easy on whoever it was, because Len knew better than anyone how much Mick would have rather just put a bullet through the person's head. Probably would have too in the old days. Back when it was just the two of them, back when neither of them cared about anyone but each other and Lisa, Len would have smirked if Mick shot someone for getting handsy, would have dragged the pyro back to base and fucked his brains out. And ah how Icarus has melted from the rays of the sun.

It wasn't just with them though. Mick cared about a lot of people, even if he couldn't really say he loved them. The Rogues Gallery had become somewhat of a little family to the both of them. While Len wasn't quite sure he'd die for most of them- definitely not Mardon- he felt a kinship to most of the rogues that Mick seemed to feel too.

It was in the hands that Mick really showed he cared. The way they curled around signs and symbols while communicating silently with Hartley because he knew the kid preferred it, the way his massive hands would ruffle against Axel's head in praise and the kid would fucking _preen_  from it. And while those hands could be bruising and dangerous, they could also be gentle and caring. Like when Shawna came to base once with a bruised eye complaining about some bastard who tried- and failed- to mug her coming out of the clinic that night. Mick was on her in a second, gentle hands cupping her cheeks and tilting her head this way and that, big fingers softly prodding to feel the extent of the damage.

Shawna just smiled sweetly and let him, though she rolled her eyes and complained that she was perfectly fine.

He was the softest with Lisa however. His sister was actually the reason Len first admitted to himself that he loved Mick.

Years after their first stint together in Iron Heights, Lisa had come home from the ice rink, her ankle swollen to all hell and pain twisted across her beautiful features. They'd still been living with Lewis at the time, but Mick was over more often than the dirty cop was so he was fluttering about her the second she limped through the door. Before Len could even _start_  to worry, Mick had the teenager sitting down with an ice pack on the swollen joint, assessing the damage. Lisa had been crying, bawling about her shot at the olympics being over and that if it was broken she'd never be able to skate right again. Yet two weeks later, when Mick deemed her ready enough, he was back on the ice _with_  her. He was wobbly and uncoordinated- not like Len's practiced and gentle movements when he helped Lisa- but he was determined. Lisa's ankle was still sore, making her favor it more than she'd like, but Mick was there to hold her up, an ever present shadow behind her just in case.  He didn't do any routine's with her, didn't try the lifts or anything as he wasn't good enough, but he stayed a good foot behind her the entire time, hands catching when she fell, muscles tensing in preparation. That night had been the first time the two rogues had ever kissed and a month later Lisa won gold in the local competition, solidifying her position for the Junior Olympics. (Much to Mick's dismay, Lewis broke her other ankle a week later and her skating career was over.)

Mick wasn't the smartest guy in the classroom, he knew that, but he was attentive, he noticed things. It was another way he showed he cared. When he'd drop a plate of food next to Len after the man got lost in plans for days, forgetting to eat and the gentle brush of Mick's fingers across his throat reminded the thief that he needed to eat. When he'd snatch a boiling pot away from Barry because the kid was too stubborn not to use his speed in the kitchen and usually ended up making a painful mess, then he'd grab the complaining speeder's hands and press kisses to his fingers to make sure they weren't burnt even if he knew they'd be healed by then. When Axel forgot his meds and Mick would just tap his knuckle against the kid's temple to get his attention before dropping the pills in his hands.

In the end though, it was in the way he protected people that Mick showed he loved them. Because despite how much he might argue about his hero status, if you had Mick's love, you had his body. He'd throw himself in the line of fire, taking any hit so long as it didn't hit you. His instincts screamed to protect, to shield, to defend. He's so determined to be bloody knuckles and glass shards, wanting people to look at him and be afraid of the idea of his wrath.

Mick would set fire to the world around him, but he'd never let a single flame touch them.


	3. And He Lets Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case study on how Leonard Snart shows he loves someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY, here's the last chapter of Love.  
> And let me just say I am so fucking proud of this chapter. Like I don't care if everyone hates it, because I loved writing it so much and it turned out so much better than I hoped! I hope everyone else likes it!  
> Spoilers for Infantino Street and Family of Rogues (From the Flash), and Destiny (From Legends of Tomorrow).  
> I think the next chapter is going to be Fear, but I'm not completely sure yet. Any suggestions would be well appreciated! :)

Len doesn't know how to love, never did. He can't express how it feels when his chest flutters and his heart aches for someone, can't tell them how much he truly appreciates what they do and how they do it. He doesn't know how to say those three words that are so important, so life changing, and yet stuck on his tongue like they're gum under a shoe. The last time they were uttered on dying lips with a gasping breath, accompanied by an orchestra of beeping machines and wrecking sobs. The last time he'd seen the only parent who ever loved him.

He wanted to love, but his skin smelt like war and his muscles ached from fighting and running.

He always found ways around saying it, even to Lisa. She'd be off to school with a quiet, "love you, Lenny," and he'd give a soft kiss on her head and say back, "be safe, Lise." And he was never in a relationship long enough for those words to become a factor until Mick came along, and even then it was years before the pyro said them. It wasn't some great explanation, no sudden reveal or sweet admittance. It was Len fooling around in the kitchen and Mick growling at him, swatting his hands with a spoon all the while saying, "Look, I love you a fucking lot, but get the hell out of my kitchen." Len had been too shocked and did just that, but Mick hadn't brought it up and even years later rarely said those words. They didn't need too, they _knew_.

It wasn't until Barry came along that those words actually caught in his throat, the need to say them so extreme and yet the panic almost overwhelming. Because Barry said them so easily, so freely, like they weren't the most powerful words in the world, like they didn't stop his heart cold every time he heard them. Mick made dinner? "Tastes amazing, babe! Man, I love your cooking almost as much as I love you." Len handed him his bag before work? "I almost forgot! Thanks, got to go, love you!" Cuddles after sex when they were tangled in a heap of limbs, too tired to function and yet too keyed up to sleep? "I love you Len, I love you Mick..."

Len wanted to say it back. He wanted to tell the speedster that the feeling bursting from his chest, the smile that spread on his lips every day, the jittery mess he turned into around him, was all thanks to him. He wanted so badly to tell him. Because Mick never cared, Mick knew him well enough to know that Len showed his affection in other ways. Mick _knew_  that and he'd told Len plenty of times that he didn't need to actually say the words. Mick didn't need to hear them.

It was in the way Len trusted that Mick _knew_ , because for a man like him trust was so hard to come by. He didn't even fully trust the Rogues, probably never would. He could count on three fingers how many people he trusted with absolute certainty and himself wasn't one of them. He was cautious, suspicious, of anyone and everyone, but once he fell in love that trust was solid. 

It's why he let Mick take care of Lisa when she was younger and he had to go on a job with Lewis. Because Lisa was the absolute most important thing to him in the entire world and trusting her to Mick's care was probably the biggest 'I love you' he could have ever painted across the sky. 

It was why he hesitated when Lewis had the trigger in his hand, that red button under his finger and the threat on his lips. If it had been anyone, _anyone_  other than Barry, he wouldn't have hesitated. If it'd been the poor bastard who'd died by his father's hand earlier that day, he would have shot the guy right then and there. Anything to protect Lisa. But this was Barry, this wasn't just his lover, but it was a man he trusted unconditionally. He hesitated not because he didn't want to shoot the speedster, but because he _trusted_  the kid to do exactly what he was promising. Save Lisa. And he did.

Sure, he still wasn't completely comfortable letting his guard down while out with Mick and Barry, that would probably never go away. He still had to sit on the opposite side of a booth, facing the doors and windows just in case. He still cased a place before entering, making note of guards or cameras or possible exits. He still made sure Lisa was safe in her room before heading off to bed. But it was in the way that he finally slept soundly at night- not half awake and half asleep, waiting for the clambering of fists and the drunken slurs. It was in the way he didn't tense up when Barry came up silently behind him, arms wrapping around his waist and head resting on his shoulder. It was in the way that he let either of them see him at his weakest when the panic was growing too heavy for him to bare, because Len _hated_  being weak, hated that sometimes he couldn't control the attacks, hated that sometimes they came on from the smallest of things. But he didn't hide from either of them anymore, didn't lock himself away in the bathroom or scream at them to go away, because he trusted them not to use the information against him. He trusted them to watch out for him, to protect him, to love him no matter what.

The first time Barry really _got_  it was just before the speedster dropped him back off in Siberia.

Because Len wasn't an idiot. He'd seen the looks on all of their faces, heard the hushed conversations and felt the sideline gazes. And it wasn't that he didn't trust Barry, because he absolutely did... it was that he knew the speedster wouldn't tell him, or _couldn't_. Because this Barry was from his future and that scared Len more than he cared to admit. The way Barry looked at him, the way he kissed him. So full of longing and despair that _something_  had to be wrong. So Len went digging. He knew better, of course he knew better.

But that never stopped him before and the voice of Gideon telling him about his own death echoed too loud in his head.

So he trusted Barry not to kill the shark. He trusted Barry not to leave him behind. And when Barry dropped him back off in Siberia, he gave him a few words of advice. A gentle caress of the shoulder, the soft words that sounded snarky to the outside world but oh so careful to their own ears. "Call me sentimental, but I think the Flash should remain a hero." Because Len knew what Barry was thinking, seeing him there, watching him with those big hazel eyes. He knew Barry wanted to run back, to save him from whatever terrible fate awaited him in the future. He knew Barry wanted nothing more than to fix it, or even to say those damn words one more time before losing him for good. And Len couldn't let that happen. He couldn't risk it, and Barry knew that. The world needed the flash more than Barry Allen needed Leonard Snart.

And it was then that Barry really knew. It was then that he realized all the times Len had told him he loved him without saying those words, because Len knew what was going to happen. Len knew he was going to die and he knew Barry wasn't going to be able to save him. But he wanted Barry to stay a hero, wanted him not to mourn him too much because by giving in, he was trusting Barry with all he was leaving behind. He was trusting Barry with Mick and Lisa's lives which were more precious to him than anything else in the entire universe. More priceless than the most expensive jewel. And he was trusting Barry with it.

A year later when Len had finally found his way back to them- after clawing his way out of the time stream, tearing it apart with his teeth- Barry was there, staring at him with big, tear filled eyes wondering if it was a trick, some hallucination like Mick had been having, a Leonard from another earth maybe. But Len had taken shakey steps forward, fingers gripping at brown tufts of hair instead of threads of time, lips pressing against skin instead of tearing at hours and minutes, lungs pulling in Barry's breaths instead of suffocating against eons. He poured everything he could into those first few kisses, and repeated the same process when Mick had stumbled into the room upon hearing Barry's sobs.

And maybe they'd have to deal with worse panic attacks after that, maybe they'd have to figure out these new powers Len had from being stuck in the time stream too long, and maybe he _still_  didn't know how to say those words.

But it didn't matter, because now Barry knew how to hear them. Now Barry knew what to look for just like Mick did.

So when Len found himself sandwiched between his two lovers that night in bed, and when he brushed his fingers over Barry's skin like it was the last time he'd ever see it, when he opened his lips to try so desperately to say those words...

Barry just smiled and said, "I love you too."


End file.
